Vortex A Realm Of Darkness

Vortex A Realm Of Darkness



Eden

As a child, I cautiously
turned the pages ,
admiring the bright
eternal sun shine,
filtering through the trees.

Bold Crimsons
and vivid lavenders,
leapt off the pages
of this hardcover volume.

The delicate fragrance,
of each wild flower,
mingled with a peace and joy,
that overflowed.

The splendor I witnessed,
there on the pages,
was so genuine,
I longed to be there.

However;
as I ripened,
the images
began to diminish.
The fragrances
began to wane.

How I wish
I could have joined you
back then,
when innocence
was still mine.

The Fathers

The Fathers

Souls speak to us from afar
Guiding today’s generation,
with the stars.

Their once precious
untouched land,
Has become soiled
By man’s greedy hand.

The strength and honor
in which they fought,
cannot in today’s braves
Be taught.

The bloodlines are mixed
and are less than sure.
The ties that bind
get thinner each year.

The secrets of the fathers
need to be shared,
With the young and the hungry
Who need to compare.

The life they live today,
With its danger and fears,
To the beauty ,serenity
and the wisdom
Of the past years.

Dad

Poor little boy
who was second
And not first.

Oh for their love
and acceptance
did you thirst.

Trying to make it
in a world full of classes.
Swallowed up you were
by the usual masses.

The line of your family
you did extend.
But sadness remained
even unto the end.

The Patriarch
has now gone
and passed.
But still in his eyes
you weren’t first
but last.

Now that he’s departed,
I hope you can heal.
And know that your life
on earth was for real.


He’s not looking
over your shoulder
any more.
He is mourning
the little boy,
who too him
should have
meant more.

Who are You?

Words

Who are you?
The one with the mysterious
sinister words.

The lass that inscribes
by the luminosity
of the moon.

Your heart is frozen
your blood ice
And your design as black
as the midnight sky.

Your eyes sparkle
with the stars
as you imprint your
bloody verse.

Spewing out poison
on parchment.

Who are you?
And how long
have you been
a part of me?

Yesterday

Yesterday

As I trace my fingertips
across your skin,
I imprint your features
in my mind forever.

My heart beats with
yours in even time.
Together the air is clear,
the sun shines, all is well
in my world.

We belong together as one.
As the creator decreed
it should be.

So why
aren’t you here
with me?

My empty arms
long to hold you close
to the beating
of my heart.

Every breeze
whispers your name,
a beautiful melody
on the wind.

Our love
rang through the trees,
echoing off
the calm waters.

For the moment,
I am with you
we are one.

But these
are only
memories
of yesterday.

The Sword

THE SWORD

The searing pain
from the
double edged sword,
As it plunges
deep within my flesh.
Is no new
sensation to me.

This pain
I have borne
For many revolutions
Of the lunar orb.

Many stars
Have watched
from the midnight sky
As the darkness
Came upon me
Time after time.

I have forever been trapped
by my fears, thoughts,
and immobility
through the years.
A self induced
Purgatory.
If you will.

So many tears
have run
without restraint
down my flushed cheeks.

Enough
To fill the river
everflowing
with my lost dreams.

Do not pluck
this Trophy
from my chest.

Then I will surely die.
For it has
become
a part
of me.

The Rose

THE ROSE

Dew clings to
The crimson tips.
And slowly drips down
The length of the bulb.

The sun is just beginning to rise
Over the tops
of the snow capped ridge
Beyond the meadow.

It’s slim golden fingers of warmth
Slowly spreading
Across the emerald field.

The shadows of
The early morning landscape
Seem to fade before my eyes.

The dew begins to disappear
From the single rose
I hold in my hand.

The last token of love
You gave to me.


I wish its perfection
Could last forever.
As a solid remembrance
Of our love.

But I know all too soon,
It will wither and die
Like our forbidden love
That was once in full bloom.

Oh, let me enjoy this moment
To its fullest
While it lasts,

Before the shadows once again call
To claim the rose
And the love
That could not be enjoyed
Through eternity.

Let me press my lips
Against its soft fragrant
Damp petals
Just once more
To imprint this image
Forever in my mind and heart.

Farewell my lovely flower.

Finality

Finality


The silence awakens me.
I feel a presence in my room.

The lace curtains stir
on the open French doors,
lit by the moons golden glow.

I can not see his form
for it is hidden in the shadows,
but I know he is there.

The light scent of the lavender lilacs
drifts up to me from the moon lit garden below.
The fragrance takes me back to my childhood,
a time of peace, joy and innocence.

There is electricity in the air,
as his presence becomes obvious.
The hair on my neck stands on end.

His dark form looms over me
in the blackness of my room.
The sound of my rapidly beating heart,
hammers in my chest.

A scream rises up in my throat-
only to be silenced by his lips,
bruising and crushing my own..

I am terrified,
yet strangely attracted
to this dark sinister invader.
This is not the first time
he has come to me.

His hot breath on my neck
stirs my senses,
my nipples harden in hope of a caress,
from his fiery tongue.

His long slender fingers
grip my hair.
The slim column
of my neck is revealed.

I feel his sharp teeth
as he connects with my throat.

My humanity
is siphoned from me.
For the last time.

Nowhere

Nowhere

The icy water
collects at my bare thighs.
The dampness of this place
is a comfort to my
cold dead body.

I wade through the water
to reach its center.
Light does not penetrate
into this teal realm.

So surreal
are the old gnarled oak trees
with their long withered fingers,
reaching out to grab
at my naked form

The muted voices of spirits,
still hovering over the place.
Call me and
bid me to stay.

To become one
with the past.
With them.

To sleep now
and forever
In nothingness

The Robert R. McCormick Museum (Cantigny Park)

The Robert R. McCormick Museum is a historic house museum that depicts the country home of a family that made the Chicago Tribune the “World’s Greatest Newspaper.” Joseph Medill (1823-1899), who became the owner of the Chicago Tribune newspaper in 1874 built this house in 1896 for his daughter and son-in-law, respectively, Katherine Medill McCormick (1853-1932) and Robert Sanderson McCormick (1849-1919). Medill’s grandson, Robert Rutherford McCormick (1880-1955) took possession of the house in 1920. Robert McCormick lived in the house until his death in 1955.
As editors and publishers of the Chicago Tribune, Joseph Medill and Robert Rutherford McCormick used the newspaper as a forum for advocating their own political points of views. On a national scale, Joseph Medill was instrumental in helping to establish the Republican National Party and in securing Abraham Lincoln’s election to the Presidency of the United States. On a local scale, Medill was instrumental in helping Chicago recover from the devastating fire of 1871.

Robert Rutherford McCormick became President of the Chicago Tribune in 1911. He served as the publisher and editor-in-chief of the Chicago Tribune from 1925 to 1955. McCormick’s pro-Republican editorials strongly supported the First Amendment rights to Freedom of Speech and Freedom of the Press. Before he took over the newspaper, however, Robert McCormick served as an Alderman on Chicago’s City Council and as President of the Sanitary Commission. Before he reached the age of 25, McCormick was also a practicing attorney and a published author. When McCormick was 35, he married Amy Irwin Adams (1872-1939). She died in 1939, and McCormick re-married in 1944.

Colonel Robert R. McCormick continued to live in the mansion until his death in 1955. McCormick’s second wife, Maryland Mathison Hooper McCormick (1897-1985), could have lived in the mansion for as long as she liked, but she chose to leave for Washington, D.C. In 1959, the mansion became a museum. The Cantigny Foundation, which is a branch of the Robert R. McCormick Tribune Foundation, maintains the mansion as a historic house museum. The mansion has 35 rooms, 12 fireplaces, 13 bathrooms and 4 staircases.

The Robert R. McCormick Museum reflects the public and private sides of Medill and McCormick, their families and guests who enjoyed this country home in Wheaton, Illinois. Priceless family heirlooms, Chinese and European works of art, and over 400 year-old antiques grace the 27 rooms that are on display for the public.

From 2002-2005, mansion staff members are restoring the interior of the mansion to reflect the way it looked from 1937 to 1955. Part of this restoration plan includes creating reproductions of original window and upholstery coverings, re-painting many of the wall colors and re-arranging some of the furnishings. Most of the original curtains and floor coverings are gone, but some of the original wallpaper and furnishings exist in the house.

Blood

Blood

The bright crimson oozes
from my broken, torn melting heart.
The blood stains my white poet’s blouse scarlet
As it slowly seeps down.
The torture of a love not fulfilled.
The pain is like electric shocks
Through to my very soul.

The Reaper’s
dead cold brittle fingers
clutch at my throat.
I smile into his jade eyes
and nod toward his silver scythe.
“Be done with it!”
“The pain I cannot take any more.

Camp fire

Bright crimson and tangerine flames,
Quiver violently in the stone border.

Their passionate dance
Illuminates the darkness.
The radiance
Creates shadows on our faces.

The crackling of the Birch logs,
Pierces the silence around us.

We wait, so still.

And then the laughter
Echoes off the river
To be carried on the wind
Down stream
To alert others of our presence.

The Spell
Is broken.

Colors

Colors

Maple leaves
turn from olive green
to deep crimson,
as summer
slips into fall.

The cool breezes
cause the foliage
to flutter and tremble.
Till they loose
their precious hold
on life
and fall
silently
to the spruce needled floor.
To create a colorful patchwork quilt.

Our footsteps are muffled
as we explore this new colorful realm.
Sunlight filters
through the remaining foliage
and spreads its light
to make the colors more vibrant.

The smell of the slowly decaying leaves
is mingled with the fresh air.
Of Autumn

God's Country

GOD’S COUNTRY

The cool breeze flows
Over the Wisconsin River.
Gently blowing through my hair.

Pine needles crunch noisily
Below my booted foot.

The trees drop their tired foliage,
To the ground to become,

A patchwork of colorful leaves, that
Lay as a quilt beneath me.

There is a crispness in the air,
As day slowly turns to night.

The only sounds,
Are of silence.
That echo off the lake,
On a whisper of the breeze.

God’s country

Night Angel

.



Night Angel

As day fades to night
my thoughts turn to you
hoping you will appear
guiding me safely
through the night to fly
high in the midnight sky.

You’re iridescence lights my way,
Where the darkness and shadows,
seem so ominous.
You come only at night
on the evening breeze.

The delicate scent of lilacs
accompany your arrival.
Your gentle breezes sooths
the voices spinning in my head.
Calming my rapidly beating heart.
As I drift into the land
of surreal images and puzzles.

By the moons glow,
your wings carry me,
if only temporarily
to a place of safety
and soft edges.

Away from the sharp
glass of reality.
Where I cut my self
often.